I Must Tell You This!

By Roger Fooks

This book of eight stories describing the fascinating world of antiques and fine art is the author's first literary offering, and has been some five years in the creation. Although he describes it as a fictional work, that is not strictly accurate because some of the events are in fact completely true. Some, however, only contain a grain of truth whilst the remainder are pure fiction, the products of a fertile imagination...but could be true; some dealers and collectors will almost certainly have similar reminiscences. The completely and partially true stories have been garnered over the years from dealer and collector friends and acquaintances, often during lulls in auction proceedings to ease the boredom of mediocre lots, but with suitable and appropriate embellishment where considered necessary. If the reader has a rye or droll sense of humour he or she should find some of the episodes amusing, and on a more serious note, hopefully interesting and even educational. Enjoy!

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Oct 24, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456788766

Roger Fooks

Aged 68, and now semi-retired, he lives in Herne Bay, a seaside town of faded Regency and Victorian grandeur on the north Kent coast, with his wife Susan, two adult children and four grand-children. His former "proper" job was as an accident claims investigator and settlement negotiator for a major insurance company. A prolific antiques and fine art collector specializing in period English drinking glasses and Wedgwood jasper, having large collections of both. He and his wife still retain an active interest in a retail antiques centre operating from a defunct cinema in Herne Bay high street, frequently visited by well known TV and media celebrities in the world of antiques and fine art, and who were in fact instrumental in encouraging him to write this book.

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© 2011 Roger Fooks. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 10/19/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4567-8875-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4567-8876-6 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Dedication:

What’s in a Name?

The Groper, the Earring, the Actress and the Barrister

A Pang of Conscience

The Expatriate’s Landscape

The Silver Spoon

The Psychology of Art

A Tale of Two Mirrors

The Bequest

Dedication:

To my indolent self without whose periods of complete indifference this book would never have been written

What’s in a Name?

No one recognised the casually dressed stranger. The regular coterie of dealers assembled at our monthly auction thought he was a private buyer; the regular private buyers assumed he was a dealer.

He stood impassively at the back of the room which gave him an excellent vantage point. From here he could see both the auctioneer’s rostrum and the other bidders. It was common practice. Most dealers jockeyed for the best position at the back of the room so that they could see who they were bidding against. The stranger must have arrived early as he had managed to secure the best position. However, no one really gave him a second glance as the auction commenced.

It was our Saturday morning auction and on this occasion a fairly mediocre assembly of mixed lots of household goods and chattels was on offer. One by one the lots went under the hammer. The stranger barely moved a muscle. Very occasionally he would make an opening bid on a lot to accelerate the proceedings, but immediately lost interest if his bid was topped. Kenny, a dealer friend of mine who was standing beside me, remarked that perhaps he was from Trading Standards to observe that all procedures were being correctly followed.

The morning dragged on. The motley collection was not inspiring.

In a mixed lot auction of antiques and general household effects you can buy anything from a wheel barrow to a Regency Chiffonier. The lots will usually be catalogued, such that the general household items which the auctioneer thinks will be of more interest to the general public, will be sold first, and the antiques later. That arrangement also suited the trade who were usually nervous if the public stayed on after the lunch break to hear what the antique items fetched, and were then able to compare those successful bids with the dealers’ mark-up and asking price when those same items later appeared in their shop windows or at an antique’s fair. The very best pieces were usually kept to the end. That way the auctioneer kept the dealers’ interest alive. It also encouraged the occasional impulse buy which was sometimes later regretted when the dealer got to examine his purchase close up.

That at least is the theory. What tends to happen in practice is that dealers will have noted the lot numbers in which they are interested before the start of the auction. A good auctioneer will generally reckon to sell lots at the rate of about 60 an hour so the prospective buyer will have a good idea when his lot will be coming under the hammer. In between times dealers will wander in and out of the room as their mood dictates, engaging other dealers in conversation and idle banter. Today was no different except that the mediocrity of the lots attracted such little excitement that it generated rather more than the usual dealer meanderings in and out of the room and restless fidgeting.

The stranger remained totally unmoved by all this activity going on around him.

The auction, which always started promptly at 10:00am, would generally break for lunch at around 1:00 pm. About 180 lots would have been sold during the morning session.

Just before lunch the auctioneer announced; Lot 175. Twelve abstract paintings, unframed; Artist or artists unknown. Some in oil, some water-colours. No reserve.

Art is not my forte, but I recognised one or two dealers in the room who tended to specialise. However, I always glanced through a mixed lot of paintings, just in case something caught my eye. You do not have to be an expert on art to recognise quality. I once discovered a pretty water-colour in a competent hand amongst a pile of amateurish daubs. Clearly, no one else had paid much attention to the lot because it was knocked down to me for £25 and I later sold the water-colour for £750. It does pay to check. I gave the other paintings in the lot to a charity shop.

But lot 175 really was a dog; naïve primitive attempts in an almost child-like hand. I could not envisage any interest from even the most inspired visionary in the room.

Can I hear £100 to start said the auctioneer with little conviction and more in hope than expectation. Silence reigned.

OK, £50 to get going. The assembly remained unimpressed. He continued in weary resignation £10 anywhere? He glanced around the room.

Surely someone has some damp patches on a wall to cover? he pleaded. At this price it’s cheaper than decorating.

Kenny remarked rather loudly and to the general amusement of the gathering, that he would rather keep the damp patches. It even forced a smile from the auctioneer. When the laughter had subsided the auctioneer resumed.

All right, if no one is interested we’ll pass it and move on. This is standard procedure in the room. The auctioneer cannot hang about if he is to maintain his 60 lots an hour, besides which the audience was becoming more fidgety as lunchtime approached.

Suddenly, a voice from the back shouted £5. Presumably someone with a lot of damp patches had seen the economics of the auctioneer’s argument. As one we all turned to identify the mystery bidder. It was the impassive stranger. The auctioneer conferred briefly with his assistant who was recording the bids. Very well he said. As there is no reserve against this lot. £5 it is and brought down the hammer.

Initially, some of the regulars felt sorry for the stranger, believing it was another of his opening bids to get things moving and that it had simply backfired. No-one had topped his bid for the lot and unfortunately he had been lumbered with it. Still, it was only a fiver and hardly likely to bankrupt him. He seemed unmoved by the murmurs of sympathy or inquisitive looks and even seemed satisfied with his purchase. One or two of our more curious brethren tried to engage the stranger in conversation and glean some information about the wisdom of his purchase, but he just smiled, tapped the side of his nose with his forefinger and departed for lunch.

About a week later I bumped into Kenny at another sale. He was in a high state of excitement.

Did you see that article in the trade Gazette about the stolen Picasso? You’ll never guess where it turned up.

I admitted that although I had heard about the theft, I hadn’t seen the article about its recovery.

It was amongst that pile of daubs our mystery friend bought for a fiver. I’ve kept the article. He fished it out of his pocket.

Stolen Picasso found in provincial auction the article read. It went on to describe how one of the world’s leading authorities on Picasso had authenticated the discovery of the missing painting amongst a pile of amateur abstract paintings at our monthly auction. Apparently the painting had been stolen to order by a wealthy recluse, from a gallery in Madrid about five years previously.

It appears this recluse rather fancied his talents as an abstract painter in the style of the Master. Everyone derided his feeble attempts at plagiarism so he decided to acquire an original master as cheaply as possible so he could study Picasso’s style in more detail and at his leisure. Cheaply of course, meant illegally. He had managed to track down a criminal with some knowledge of art, but more importantly an expert knowledge of foiling security systems, to undertake the commission.

It seems that although the thief was an expert in getting past alarms, he wasn’t so hot on removing valuable canvasses, and his hasty crude attempt at cutting this from the frame resulted in him leaving part of the canvas behind. Unfortunately, it was the corner containing Picasso’s signature. The magazine article had contrasted the thief’s dexterity at by-passing a very sophisticated security system with his clumsy endeavours with a craft knife.

The art world was curious at the time as it was the only picture taken. The picture was too well known for any attempt to sell it on the open market and it had never been heard of since.

Ironically, the thief was eventually caught trying to break into another art gallery. This time he was after a Degas, but improving technology in the shape of one sophisticated security system too many had defeated him. When questioned he admitted the Picasso theft. He insisted he didn’t know the identity of his client. He had met him by arrangement at Victoria station where he was paid £10,000 in cash for the painting. It would have been a great deal more had the thief not left Picasso’s signature behind. When asked to describe him the thief said his customer was disguised, a false ginger beard contrasting almost comically with his thin grey hair. The only other information he could provide was that he was elderly. He also said that the old man had volunteered that he was suffering from terminal liver cancer.

The anonymous and impassive stranger had traced the painting to our humble Saturday auction by pure detective work. He belonged to an organisation specialising in tracing stolen works of art. This organisation was sponsored by Lloyds of London who specialised in fine art insurance, and who were keen to retrieve their property once they had paid out. The insurers had offered a reward of £500,000 for the painting’s safe return, about 10% of the picture’s value at that time, which was the going rate.

The police had allowed the art detective to interview the thief. He could only repeat what he had told them. His client was elderly and was suffering from terminal liver cancer but he added one further vital clue. He thought his terminally ill client came from Kent. When asked why he believed this the thief said that the meeting place at Victoria station first alerted him to this possibility, because after they departed he had watched his client shuffle across the concourse to look at the departure board for Kent trains.

On this flimsiest of information the art detective had instructed solicitors to insert notices in every local newspaper and make enquiries of every hospital and hospice in Kent for information about recently deceased or dying liver cancer patients, especially anyone who had left a small legacy or made a generous donation to any of these institutions.

Eventually he had a successful result when a small private hospice at a seaside town contacted the solicitors with details of such a person, an elderly man, a keen antiques collector, who had recently died leaving them a very generous donation and who, in his remaining days, had spent most of his conscious hours studying books on Picasso! The only other beneficiary had been a daughter to whom he had left the remainder of his not inconsiderable wealth. However, she lived abroad and had instructed her late father’s solicitors to dispose of his complete estate. They, in turn, had instructed one of the major London auction rooms to prepare a full inventory and remove what they considered to be the best items, for sale.

After they had taken their pick, our local auction house was instructed to clear the rest of the property which included the stack of Picasso look-alikes including the original stolen Picasso. What better place to hide a Picasso, missing its signature, than amongst a pile of fakes? The recluse had, unwittingly, thrown every one off the scent. Both the London auction house and our local auctioneer had missed the Picasso, but the art detective had spotted it and had had it authenticated. The article went on to describe how his organisation had obtained a catalogue for every auction advertised in Kent, They concentrated on looking for painting lots, and he or one of his colleagues had visited every one of these auction